


Like Gasoline

by WheatKing



Category: Edge of Tomorrow (2014)
Genre: F/M, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WheatKing/pseuds/WheatKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted so much to pull his broken body over hers, let them lie together in that last few seconds. He wanted to tell her, it’s for you, I know I had to do it, because of you.</p><p> </p><p>I did it because you made me into a man who couldn’t not do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Gasoline

He was a soft man. There was no point in avoiding that, now.

He had soft hands, a clean uniform, a clear conscience.

He rode around in cars other people drove, helicopters other people flew. He talked about what other people did. He sold war to other people.

 

That is what other people still saw.

 

His body was soft where it should be hard. He felt it, in his guts. He should be faster, leaner. He could use this body expertly, now. But it still didn’t match what he felt. His arms were muscled, but it was gym muscle. His legs were strong, but it was from jogging. Running around the block.

He felt spaces where there should have been _something._

Day 29, 30, and 209 left him a 6 inch gouge across his shoulders and back. He should’ve felt it, the pull. He should’ve been able to feel it when he saluted the soldiers standing at attention.

 

He watches the men and women on the base. He scans the sky. He’s assessing, cataloging. He sees a slash of black, moving in that spidery way, and he jerks, feels for a trigger that’s not there.

 

He could see, just fine, out of both eyes. Day 10 had left him totally blind, and 77 had taken his left eye right out the socket.

 

She hadn’t been there for that day. It had been worse. Worse than being blind.

 

He could hear. That went the most. Usually on the beach, but on Day 98 he’d punctured an eardrum training. She hadn’t noticed. He hid it.

 

That was one of the days he had to shoot himself.

 

He’d broken bones, torn skin, been burned alive.

 

 

He moves in this new skin that doesn’t feel like his. Unbruised and whole. He moves around the base in this soft skin and watches.

 

Everyone’s happy. They buzz, talking about going home, new deployments, seeing families, eating real food. Having sex.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He hasn’t slept in years.

He lies on his bunk, across from hers. If he reached out, he’d be able to touch her, just barely. Less than 5 feet away.

 

He rests his hands across his body.

 

Most nights, he doesn’t sleep well. He tries to remember what it felt like, to expect sleep, _every_ night.

 

When he was in it, he’d dozed, a few times. 20 minutes some nights. In his bunk, in the training room, and towards the end, on her floor while she showered.

 

He’d slept beside her, two times. Only twice, and he still reached for her every morning, on that tarmac.

Both times were in the wrecked house, on the hill.

 

He’d laid out a tarp for them; made a nest from tattered and moth-eaten cotton sheets.

She's watched him do it. Cradling her arm against her chest.

“Love the trains, Cage.”

 “Well, that’s all that was left in the closet.” He smooths the edges a little with his hands. “Guess they had a kid, huh?”

 

Her face does that thing that he wouldn’t have noticed, before. Now, he knows all her twitches, her expressions, and the things she does to hide them from him.

 

She is quietly devastated, in that moment, and he is reminded that she has likely lived as long as he has. A different day, thousands of times. He remembers their conversations in the van, and he knows this could be worse. It could have been a worse day.

 

She dies 4 hours later, blood in her hair.

 

 

The next time she sleeps next to him, close enough that he can touch her face, her hair, he knows.

 

This could not have been worse, not for him.

 

He traces the arch of her cheekbone, and thinks, “Yes, this is a kind of hell.”

 

He pulls the red and blue sheet with smiling trains on it further up, covering her bare shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

 At night, he remembers the sound, at the end. She didn’t scream, she didn’t have to. He knows, in his bones, what it feels like when she dies.

 

More than anything, he’d wanted to crawl back out of that dirty water, to where she was. Where her body was. The one he knew so well, by now.

The way her left knee clicked. The little starfish scar on her hand. The smell of oil and sweat, and sometimes coffee. He woke up to it, in his animal brain he sniffed for it, in the air. Every day, he walked into that training bay and felt her there, fitting against him.

 

 

He’d married her, in his mind, many times over. He can’t help but feel delusional about that. A one-sided crush. But, he knew her, as intimately as any husband. His body knew her body.

 

He knew what it felt like to make her smile, and then laugh, in the front seat of that busted up van.

 

He knew what it felt like, kneeling against her, trying to hold her blood in her body, and feeling the pumping slow down.

 

She never once turned him away.

 

 

He wanted so much to pull his broken body over hers, let them lie together in that last few seconds. He wanted to tell her, it’s for you, I know I had to do it, because of you.

 

I did it because you made me into a man who couldn’t not do it.

 

 

 You would have hated me before. Would have seen the man who talked and talked, but never _did anything._

 

What am I now? What do I get to keep?

 

He looks at her and sees _all of it_ , and thinks “will you love me now?”

* * *

 

 

 She gets sent to Russia, to secure their defenses. Really, to clean up the last mimics hanging on, stumbling at half-speed across flooded streets. He asks to be transferred to cover her unit, and when they stall and try to send him to South America instead, he resigns his rank and is a Private again. He follows her, a little desperately.

She lets him, because he has explained, and when he sees a little understanding flash across her face, he knows it’s because of Henderson. He can be close to her, so he doesn’t let the sting last too long.

 

Practicality will win out.

 

 

They, of course, think he is fucking nuts. Not because he’s told anyone aside from her, but just because he’s resigned his command less than 5 days after a successful, painless end to a war he’d been the public face of. They don’t like that they can’t understand why he’s dropped the connections, the state dinners, and the likely book deals to follow a soldier around. A war hero, but still just a soldier.

 

When he does it, they try to tell him he can’t just resign a rank like that, but he knows by now that in the grand scheme of things, demoting yourself is very possible, and not difficult at all.

 

* * *

 

 

 They have all sorts of theories, and rumors. He doesn’t care.

 

They say he’s after an even bigger book deal, following the Angel of Verdun around. He’s trying to seduce her, or talk her into some kind of deal. Movies, books, tour- she’s had offers, but only the ones that get past the Russian line. They have that, at least. The satellites knocked out of orbit, they don’t get any internet access during the day, and only for a few hours, some nights.

 

He does not miss it.

 

 _The Unauthorized Story of The Full Metal Bitch_ is sent to them, it’s on her bunk, and they already had a picture of the two of them together, from the first week after. He’s standing behind her, at the press conference they’d pulled them both to. He is still a major in the picture, but later that same day, he is not.

 

 

The others in their unit think he’s a joke. The 45 year old Private, never seen any battle, quits his job to follow Vrataski and crawl around in the cold mud.

 

They stop sneering at him when he does his job. It’s his turn to watch her back, and he does his fucking job.

 

He has fought beside her for a lifetime, and for less than 6 weeks. He knows how she strategizes, how she will move in almost any situation. He speaks to her in her shorthand. He has what she needs ready for her before she asks for it. He is the second best that they have, and they realize it very quickly. His eyes are always on her.

 

* * *

 

 

 His old department first wants him to stop. When it becomes clear they can’t separate them, they fly out a new PR team, to convince him, to convince them, to let them script a few interviews, a photo shoot.

 

Someone films them. Just walking back to the base in St. Petersburg, he holds both their coats in one hand, and watches her. She was telling him about her brother, and he’d been listening, carefully, because she was finally telling him something about herself she’d never told him, before. He was alive, and living in South Africa, probably. They’d fought the last time she’d seen him. He was watching her face, listening to this confession from her, and he didn’t see the camera.

 

They’d been asked to meet the plane. So, they silently get ready after 2 hours of sleep, sluice themselves with cold water, and pull on yesterday’s layers underneath their cleanest uniforms. He runs his hand over his head, feels how short it is. No comb necessary.

 

She’s re-braiding her hair, tight. She catches him looking, watching her. She raises her eyebrows at him, daring him to say something. He just grins.

He likes watching her braid her hair, but he likes the look on her face when she notices him do it even more. She is remembering the same thing he is remembering. It is novel, for him.

 

 

When they’d all gotten shaved 3 weeks ago, defence against the fleas, she’d insisted on gasoline instead. It had taken 30 seconds to solve his flea problem, and almost 2 hours to solve hers. He’d pointed that out no less than 4 times while he stood behind her.

 

“You know, all this valuable gasoline could be used to take us into St. Petersburg.”

 

He checks her face. Stone.

 

“Maybe see a show, try some caviar, do a vodka tasting.”

 

She cracks a smile.

 

“Or, you know, talk someone into taking some of these credits for new socks. Eat some potatoes. A real night on the town.”

 

She huffs a little, which means she thinks he’s hilarious.

 

He taps her jaw with his left hand, tilting her head a little so her can rinse again.

 

They’re standing in the warmest bathroom on the base, and it’s so fucking cold there’s ice on the floor. He can feel her shivering through his hand. He steps closer to her, presses against her. He gets wet, but he can dry.

 

The Angel of Verdun liked her hair.

* * *

 

 

 

 They shove their hands into the pockets of their coats and lean against the side of the hangar. The plane buzzes in low, scraping the runway, breaking up before dipping back down again.

 

He stands up straighter and pulls his gloved hands out of his pockets. He glances at Rita and sees she’s more worried about this than he thought. Before the door opens, before anyone can see them, he wraps his hand around her arm, squeezes. She quirks her mouth at him, and then shakes her head.

 

They turn completely towards the plane. He watches her lock it all up.

 

* * *

 

 

They present a united front, but a united front that is not romantic in the slightest.

They stand a few feet apart. At military rest. She is frowning at him, at everyone. He tries his best to look blankly agreeable.

 

To anyone else, they looked like co-workers, fellow soldiers. Collegial.

 

He calls her Sargent, and she calls him Cage, and if he shifts his chair closer to hers in the conference room, it doesn’t look like anything more than angling for a better view of the presentation.

 

The PR team leave, obviously disappointed. Confused.

 

 They’re good, but not as good as he used to be. To be truly great, you needed to understand your audience. And they did not understand him, not anymore.

 

They saw his 20 year career, and thought they knew what would play, what would sway him.

 

 

He sat, holding himself still, silent, during their meeting. He knows it unnerves them. He knows it makes it difficult for them. The subject is supposed to be uncomfortable around the silences, to talk themselves into doing something, buying the product, supporting the plan.

He can see her hands, resting on her thighs, from his seat at the conference table. This is making her tense in a way battle never did.

 

She never would have talked to him.

 

He nudges her ankle with his muddy boot. The muscles in her neck twitch, and he grins, hides it behind a fist. He has their talking points debrief on the table in front of him. They’re going to send reporters from 2 major outlets, and a whole bunch of freelancers out to their base, to see their operation. Ostensibly, they will be reporting on the progress of the clean-up.

 

The number of talking points that deal with US-British relations, his new role as her de facto bodyguard and constant companion, and her views on dating betray a more complicated plan.

 

There’s going to be a new nostalgia for war, one that involves romance in the trenches, and they want the Angel of Verdun and her strange Private to sell it for them.

 

She is young looking, beautiful, and deadly. He is older, handsome, and has a history of being an excellent salesperson for exactly this type of thing.

 

On paper, they are perfect.

 

He can tell they’re still reeling from the reality that’s presented to them when they arrive, and see them both in person, for the first time.

 

 

In a moment of seeming desperation, the youngest one starts talking about post-war weddings. They suggest he might want to propose, this can be the first UDF wedding. An American and a Brit; a war hero and her adoring suitor.

 

She goes completely still, and makes a noise in her throat. She shuts down totally. The young one looks crushed, and Cage can tell he’s going to get it from his boss the whole plane ride back to civilization. They can tell themselves they were up for it until the new guy fucked up and went too far.

 

He doesn’t care. He watches her still shoulders, her unhappy expression, and feels empty.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He would have done it. He would have done it in a heartbeat.

 

 

* * *

 

When they’re alone, he can tell her, when he has to, when he can’t be alone with it anymore, about their days together.

 

She has also started accepting touches from him. Brushes of his shoulder as they walk together. His hand on her arm as he hands her a new clip, and once, his fingers against her neck, counting her heartbeats.

 

Last night, she reached for him for the first time. She pressed her thumb against his wrist. She’d stared at their hands while he quietly explained how he knew about her father. He’d wound down at the end, and they’d just stood there, leaning into each other’s space, feeling his pulse count the beats.

 

He loves her. Sometimes, he suspects that maybe, somewhere in her mind, or her bones, she loves him a little bit too. In her hindbrain, maybe he has made an impression on her, and she does love him, after all this time, she recognizes him.

 

It’s in her quick acceptance of his presence here, by her side. It’s in the sharp inhale when he peels the torn Kevlar away from his left arm after they’re visited by a pack of wild wolves on patrol. It’s in her face when he tells her he understands if she doesn’t feel the same.

 

* * *

 

 

He cleans their guns, carefully, because now he knew how, and that even if you could do it backwards, blindfolded, it paid to be thorough.

 

He hands her the gun oil, and thinks about doing this, many times, the night before the beach.

 

He picks up the brush and admits, “I love you, and I have for a very long time, and I’ve never been able to stop.”

 

He keeps looking down, tracing the edge of the grip. “I tried, for a while. It didn’t stick.”

 

She raises her eyebrows a little at that. Her gun sits in pieces on the table.

 

He threads the brush through the barrel.

 

Her hand is warm on his arm. She’s never been good at talking. She looks like she’s trying to accept this from him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 He lays on his back at night, and thinks about the body 5 feet away.

 

He thinks about her shoulders when they’d said “marriage”.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. The next day he is shot.

 

Friendly fire. Of all the fucking things.

 

They’re on patrol, in daylight. The kid that shoots him had been aiming for something else. Hopefully more than a shape or a shadow. His face is white when he sees the mess.

 

He slumps in the snow, holding his left arm against his stomach. The ice is cold against his legs, he knows that, but he can’t feel it.

 

He remembers this moment. This is usually when Rita would shoot him.

 

He’s pretty light-headed.

 

She’s there, she’s angry. She’s looking at him like maybe she just asked him a question. It’s very hard to think. He tries to wipe the blood out of his eyes, but he’s not sure he manages to lift his arm.

 

His stomach feels like it’s on fire, but she’s here.

 

She’s got this.

 

He’ll see her tomorrow.

 

 

His arms are numb. He’s tired. He’s cold. He brings his face to hers. He lets his eyes close, just for a second.

 

 

It’s rough cotton that wakes him. No burlap. Methodical beeping. No one kicks at him. There’s no wind.

 

 

He’s not in it anymore. It’s done.

 

 

 

He forces his eyes open again, dread gripping him.

 

 

It’s dark. Beeping. He’s sick, injured. He’s in a hospital.

 

Rita’s not there, he doesn’t know where she is. He doesn’t know.

 

He slips away.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s still dark, or dark again. He’s groggy, disoriented. He’s not on the tarmac. Hospital, sick bay, whatever.

 

She’s here. Beside his bed. She’s wearing black. No, she’s wearing his blood.

 

She’s practically vibrating. She’s tapping her fingers against the side of the chair. She’s looking at the window, out at nothing.

 

He tries to speak, and nothing but a rasping noise comes out. She’s a soldier, so she doesn’t jump, but she swings her head towards him very quickly. She immediately stops tapping.

 

He tries again, “You look nice.”

She snorts, smiles at him, a real one, and then her face straightens out. She’s going to tell him something terrible.

 

He feels the rough cotton against his palms, damp with his sweat.

 

She looks him in the eye, “Go back, go to South America, tell them this was research.”

 

“No. You don’t get to say that. This-“ He swallows the words that were going to come out.

 

She pulls away, drags her hands down her face.

 

“Look-“ She says it like something else is going to come after, but she just hunches her shoulders, looks down at her stained hands.

 

He never got to practice this conversation. At the beginning, he didn’t think he’d ever have this with her, and by the end, he assumed he’d be dead before any of this mattered.

He’d learned how to put a rifle together, blindfolded, pilot a helicopter, and make coffee over a fire, but not how to keep her with him. He never found out how to make her stay.

 

She moves to stand, and he can’t take it. He grabs the edge of her shirt, makes a fist.

 

She stays in the chair. “I don’t want to do this Cage. I don’t.”

 

He’s desperate, and still punchy from the painkillers. He feels like he’s in the nightmare where he just keeps running in quicksand. “Just-I’m not asking you to do anything.” He’s raspy, and can hear the edge of tears in his own voice.

 

She whips her head up, and looks furious. “What the hell do you think this is?” She’s the angriest he’s ever seen her, but it also sounds like she is genuinely confused. “What do you think-“

 

He cuts her off, “You don’t love me, I know.”

 

She ducks her head, “Are you fucking kidding me?” She laughs, but it’s broken and awful sounding. She covers her face with her right hand.

 

He lets himself look.

 

She’s shaking.

 

He whispers at her, looking for her face, “Rita-”

 

She’s crying, and her whole body shakes, it is the one thing he’s never seen. She curls her hands around his on the bed and presses her face down. He can feel her tears on his wrist.

 

His feels numb. He didn’t think she would.

 

He makes sounds at her, and lifts his left arm carefully to hover over her head, before finally bringing it down, letting it rest against her beautiful hair.

 

He hushes at her, pats at her hair.

 

“Do you see? I don’t have it in me. Not again.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay.” He keeps his arms around her, as best he can. Eventually, she pulls herself up, onto his bed, beside him. She’s careful around his stomach. She closes her eyes against his throat. He breathes out, carefully.

 

He keeps a hand wrapped around hers all night.

 

 

 

She stays, and so does he.

 

 


End file.
